


Sunfingers

by FallacyFallacy



Category: Choice of Broadsides, Choice of Games
Genre: F/F, Nipple Play, No orgasms, No penetration, PWP, Painplay, Temperature Play, Wax
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:03:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallacyFallacy/pseuds/FallacyFallacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Villeneuve always seemed to radiate a certain unreplicatable elegance, whether she was commanding crew upon a heaving ship, striding confidently across the floor of a ballroom, or lying in Mary's bed, utterly naked. Written for my free square for Kink_Bingo, which I chose to be Temperature Play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunfingers

The low sounds of the sea echoed in the background, washing back and forth as though the water were massaging the shore. On all sides, rain poured down, battering against the roof, walls, window. Every now and then the quiet rumble of thunder could be heard, or the loud splash of a particularly large wave hitting the shore. In Mary's experience, there were two types of sailors: those who saw the return of land as a blessing and went back to their ship only hesitantly, and those who thought of every moment not spent on a powerfully moving boat as one wasted. The former were never proficient women – competent, maybe, but a true sailor needed the sea's soul that only the latter type possessed. That Mary possessed.

But for the time being, these sounds provided nothing but a comforting backdrop. Mary was more concerned with the woman above her.

Villeneuve was always stunning, but there was something about her now – naked, her golden brown hair falling over her shoulders, smiling that mischievous little Gaulish smile down at Mary – that made her appear as some kind of goddess. The flickering candlelight cast panes of light over her tanned skin, in turns revealing and concealing her. Although outside it is surely abysmally cold, and though no more than a candle lit the room, Mary felt positively hot, the warmth of Villeneuve's body having touched her own almost continuously since this evening. What remnants of the white sheets that remained did nothing to cover them, for there was nothing left to be covered – in the days since they had become lovers, there was not an inch of her that Mary had not seen and touched. Some more than others, Mary thought with a smirk.

And there, before her, were Villeneuve's round, full breasts, big and beautiful and emblematic of that precise shade of femininity that made Mary fall in love with her in the first place. This, she thought, is it: this is why they, as women, have dominion over the sea and the lands and the world. Men were naught but steel covering soft velvet within, but women were velvet encasing the kind of fiery passion that a man could never hope to achieve.

This, Mary thought as she beheld Villeneuve's breasts, was why she never much cared for men.

Villeneuve shifted, the light revealing her neck; her stomach. “{My beloved Mary,}” she whispered in a soft husky voice, the Gaulish tongue falling effortlessly from her lips. “{How is your Gaulish coming along?}”

The first time Mary had seen her back then on that prize she had known that there was something different about her. Mary had always had a sort of grudging admiration for the Gauls – they were the enemy, and Mary had no difficulties about that, but even the Albionish had to admit that the Gaulish culture had inspired great beauty. Although she had never regretted stepping off onto the ocean at the age of ten, she had felt some disappointment at never learning their language.

Villeneuve, somehow, seemed to encompass everything that Mary found good in the Gauls. She was a masterful leader who clearly cared deeply about her crewwomen. She held herself with dignity and confidence; perhaps with a touch of arrogance, yes, but all the better to bluff the unaware. Most of all, she was a woman who deeply cared for honour. Mary had found no difficulty in accepting her parole or in granting her supplies. The understanding between them was something that a mere mistress' mate like Jones could never understand – the understanding between gentlewomen.

She had thought of Villeneuve occasionally afterwards. Sometimes she had been been struck with comparisons between her and her superior officers, other times between the beauty of her and that of the girls she had taken. (And if she were somewhat eager to turn to them too early into the voyage, she was well-liked enough that gossip was uncommon.) It was only an odd thought here or there. She certainly never expected it to amount to anything. If they had not met that day at the ball, Mary would most certainly have forgotten the entire thing before long.

When Madam Bryce had suggested introducing her into some eligible young men, Mary had been reluctant at first. Men had never held any interest for her, sexually or otherwise, and she doubted her ability to find one she liked enough to bear living with him. However, it was certainly true that a good marriage could help her career, and, after all, she had always intended to remain on the sea for as long as possible. If she did marry, she would only see him briefly at shore leave. As long as he wasn't too unpleasant and could hold up her reputation she didn't particularly mind.

Still, as she shuffled into the crowded room she felt some doubts. She enjoyed the company of other people – she liked to keep by her crew as much as possible, and they generally seemed to appreciate her involvement – but commanding a ship of the Royal Navy was a very different matter to navigating the social intricacies of polite society. Compared to all these rich, beautiful men and women she was quite conscious of her lower status.

“Madam Brown!”

And then she had arrived. Her coat was a deep, velvety green, and her shirt pure white. Jewels glittered at her throat and on her buttons. Unlike Mary's own short hair which was tied back in a traditional low ponytail, Villeneuve's own waves fell from high atop her head – an unusually masculine style, but one that seemed only to highlight the feminine sculpt of her cheekbones. Every inch of her clothing was fine. Not in the latest style, perhaps – Mary had never particularly cared for fashion, so she would not know – but it all suited her perfectly. When she smiled, her brown eyes shined, glittering in a caramel-coloured gold that fell like a ray of sunshine onto Mary.

“Madam Villeneuve! What a surprise!”

When Villeneuve spoke, Mary had felt her heart lurch in a way she never had before. This graceful, beautiful woman, terrifying in battle and yet eternally noble, was everything that Mary herself had ever yearned to become. When she spoke softly, her husky voice explaining the gratitude she felt, Mary hastened to dismiss her thanks. She had only acted as a gentlewoman should to another, after all. The smile she received in return was brighter than even the crystal chandelier above their heads.

To this day Mary could still remember that night – those hours playing whist, in turns scrutinising Villeneuve's expression for tells and pretending to do so to catch glimpses of her fair face, talking of trifles just to hear her speak and to learn more about her. When Mary lost, she resolved to herself that the next time they played, she would be the victor.

Then there had been the footpads, and once again Villeneuve had saved her – Mary was terrible with a sword and pistol, and always would be. But already then she was too far gone to care, and so the two had returned to a tavern. That had been the best of all, above speaking with her in a stunning ballroom or even playing her in whist. No – Mary could not conceive of any better thing than simply conversing with her one on one, sharing tales of the sea.

At first they had been tall stories told to impress, but as the night went on they became more quiet, even melancholy. Mary didn't remember a great deal of this time, but she could clearly envision in her head the moment when she had told Villeneuve in a hush whisper all that she had never been able to put into words about why she loved sailing. The feeling of the ship rippling and shifting beneath her, as though it were an extension of her body. The smell of the sea breeze, cold and shocking but refreshing like nothing else. Seeing the proud faces of her crew and knowing that they hung on her every word, and would obey every one of her orders. Hearing this, Villeneuve had not smiled wryly and murmured vague agreements like almost everyone else she spoke to of this. No, she had looked into Mary's eyes in utter seriousness and had told her that she understood, brushing her hand against Mary's own. When Mary gazed into her eyes, she believed her utterly. She did understand. There was not a force in the world that could have prevented her from asking Villeneuve back to her room at that point.

And then... _well_. Mary smiled at the memory. Yes, they had done a lot of that in the days since. Conversing and ...other things. And Mary had never once gone to another ball. Madam Bryce was clearly disappointed – in fact, Mary was beginning to suspect that she knew the truth – but for now, that matter could wait. It could wait for as long as it took for Villeneuve to stop dominating her mind from dawn to dusk. It could wait forever, if need be.

“Ma cherie?”

Mary blinked. Villeneuve smirked down at her, eyes dancing.

Leaning down, she brushed at a strand of hair on Mary's cheek. “You were lost in daydreams, it seems.”

Mary grinned. “Merely entranced momentarily by your incredible beauty, Colette.”

“Flattery as always.” Villeneuve leaned down, brushing her lips against Mary's. Into her mouth she whispered, “You know me too well.”

Mary shivered, eyes fluttering closed. She breathed in, taking in her lover's scent – salt and sweat and the last lingering traces of a flowery perfume. Her back shifted on the mattress, arching slightly; the cheap bed creaked and Mary let out a low sigh.

Villeneuve chuckled, low in her throat. “You still have not answered my question, ma cherie,” she continued playfully, kissing her cheek. Her breasts pressed against Mary's chest, her legs sliding by hers.

Mary took a deep breath, furrowing her brow in concentration. “{I have not had many opportunities to practice of late, my love...}”

Again that throaty chuckle. Mary relaxed, opening one eye; she could see every eyelash surrounding her lover's brown eye. Villeneuve tossed her head, her long, messy hair tracing trails over Mary's skin. From this angle, she was cast in shadow by the one candle in the room. She leaned over Mary, complementing the darkness with a dark smile of her own.

“Your accent, alas, remains atrocious.”

“But it has improved?”

“A little.”

Mary raised her eyebrows, turning so she could curl her arm around Villeneuve's waist and tangle her leg between hers. “I believe that is cause for celebration.”

Villeneuve raised an eyebrow in mock thought. “Is it? I wonder... If what you say is true, then perhaps...”

Mary laughed, bringing her other arm around Villeneuve and hugging her tightly. “Just try it.”

Villeneuve chuckled throatily, then leaned in to kiss her. Mary submitted instantly, melting into the mattress, her arms going loose. The kiss was slow – there had been enough time for hasty passion earlier. Instead, now, they kissed almost lazily, refamiliarising themselves with each other's mouths and how it felt. Villeneuve's fingertips traced lines back and forth on the nape of Mary's neck, causing her to shiver. In return, she spread her palm over Villeneuve's waist, and then her round hip. She was just trailing her hands over her perfect arse when Villeneuve broke away, touching her hand to her upper arm.

Mary's eyes flickered open. Villeneuve's face was mere inches away. She could see every sun-kissed freckle on her cheeks, every thread of honey in her eyes. Their messy hair hung over their shadowed faces, as though this shared room were not enough – they needed more intimacy, needed to be even closer together. Her breath was hot, the canopy of hair and skin keeping their shared air close.

“Close your eyes, ma cherie.”

Without a second thought, Mary closed them.

“You obey immediately. Good girl,” Villeneuve spoke with a playful lilt.

“I would trust you with my life, Colette.”

Villeneuve was silent. Not even the faint brush of material against skin broke the continuous background music of the ocean or the rain. In the distance thunder rumbled; Mary felt the heat of intense scrutiny, and then the mattress shifted as Villeneuve stepped away from the bed.

Mary could hear the faint padding of Villeneuve's feet tentatively against the cold ground, and then a shift of light she could detect through her eyelids – Villeneuve had taken up the candle. Was she using it to see something more closely? But what? Mary wondered, skin already tingling in anticipation. She might not know what Villeneuve was planning, but she was certain that she would enjoy it.

The mattress shifted again, so that Villeneuve was sitting on her other side. Mary rolled to turn towards her, but a touch at her shoulder encouraged her to lie on her back, head facing the ceiling. She continued to close her eyes, though by now she was becoming extremely tempted to open them.

As though reading her mind, Villeneuve leaned down next to her ear. “No peeking, now.”

“Yes, mistress,” Mary said, rolling her eyes behind her eyelids. Villeneuve humphed.

There was a touch to her stomach and Mary jumped. But Villeneuve's skin was warm, and the small circle she massaged into her skin felt pleasant.

“Be prepared, ma cherie – this may feel hot...”

Hot...?

Mary barely had time to process the idea before she felt it. She gasped involuntarily, muscles of her stomach twitching; it _did_ feel hot. But it felt...strange. Liquid and warm, but becoming harder and more firm by the second. The sensation of it hardening on her skin was so odd, but not unfamiliar.

“Wax...”

She had felt it before, of course – as a girl, she had enjoyed peeling the hardened wax off with her fingers. But it had never occurred to her to use it in _this_ context.

“Is it unpleasant?”

“No!” Mary breathed, fumbling with her hand to feel it. It was still warm and semi-liquid. As she pressed down on the skin on her side, it ran sluggishly down her hip, sending a slow trail of heat.

As she catalogued the feeling with fascination, she realized that she wasn't lying. This was unusual – certainly not at all what she would have expected from the impatient and impetuous Villeneuve – but it felt very good. To lie back and listen to the sea and the rain, while Villeneuve sat above her, serving these delectable sensations to her, filling her with warmth... This was definitely something she could get used to.

Villeneuve touched another part of her stomach on the other side and Mary's breath instinctively quickened. Her skin trembled, remembering the heat from before and imagining it pooling there...

Then it came, hot and liquid and Mary actually gasped, rolling her back as the wax spread. Her movements made it run further, down her other side and over the middle of her stomach. She grunted, feeling the wax slowly solidify, smooth against her skin.

Instead of touching another part of her, however, Villeneuve's fingers next came to where the wax had pooled the first time. Using the tip of her finger, she slid under the wax. Mary jumped – her skin was warm and oddly sensitive there. Villeneuve removed the wax, flaking it off and brushing her bare skin. Then, she did the same for the other pool.

For some time this continued. Villeneuve would touch a spot of Mary's skin and then pour hot wax onto the area. But she learned quickly, seeing Mary's anticipation, and soon began to vary the mount of time she waited – sometimes she would pour almost immediately, while other times she would wait as long as half a minute before she would drip the wax. If it came quickly it would be shocking but more bearable as there was less time for wax to melt and build up. If it took a while, Mary would be so tense waiting for it that it would almost feel pleasurable just from it finally happening, let alone because of the great deal of wax that would pool over her skin.

She wasn't much aware of the passing of time. With her eyes closed, her other senses heightened – she was constantly aware of the sound of the wind and the rain and the waves around her, encircling their cabin and swallowing the whole world outside them. Although the bed could not be said to be expensive, it was much better than her bed on the ship, and infinitely superior to what she had slept on as a crewwoman. It was soft and pliant under her back, dipping where she rested her weight on it as though pulling her in ever further, cradling her. And most of all, it was warm. After so long on a freezing cold shift, she had forgotten how much she missed this. On a ship, when it was stormy, the cold seeped into everything. But here, with Villeneuve, the weather outside was no more than a pleasant backdrop.

But despite these sensations, it was as though her thought process slowed to a stop the whole while. There was sound and there was wax and there was Villeneuve's fingers and maybe, just maybe, if she listened closely she could hear her breathing or smell her scent, but it was the feeling that really mattered, and _that_ Mary luxuriated in.

Slowly, the areas Villeneuve dripped wax on shifted. A drop of wax hit the underside of Mary's breast and she started – she hadn't realized Villeneuve had been moving at all. The next time, Villeneuve's finger didn't graze just any part of her but softly brushed her nipple. Instantly it became hard from touch alone, and Mary shivered in anticipation of the wax against her. Already she felt so warm, and just imagining something so hot against such a sensitive portion of her skin...

Villeneuve waited and waited, and Mary resisted the urge to grunt. Or was it just that Mary was so much more tense for this one than for the other times?

When the drip came, Mary jumped, even though she'd felt prepared. It was so hot, it was painful, and she gasped, whimpering slightly. But it wasn't bad – no, it was strong and hot and it satisfied her anticipation. She shivered, feeling her eyes roll back a little. It felt good.

Villeneuve's finger came immediately afterwards, teasing at the semi-dried wax and peeling it away, massaging Mary's sensitive nipple in the process. Her chest felt so hot, her nipples like they were enflamed, and every touch made pleasure sweep through her. Villeneuve touched her nipple again, and Mary's hands tightened in the sheets – had she been holding them? Apparently.

When the next drip came, a slightly larger droplet than the last, Mary let her head roll back, not sure whether she was moving into or away from the sensation. Her other nipple twinged as though ordering attention itself. As though reading her mind, Villeneuve slightly rolled it next, leaving the wax on the first. It felt strange there – a constant light pressure that might have been forgettable normally but which felt delightfully teasing there, especially after the heat from before. Then Villeneuve poured the wax and Mary moaned aloud.

A quiet noise – Villeneuve chuckling? Mary didn't care a bit. This felt _damn_ good.

Villeneuve's service continued, dripping larger and larger amounts of wax onto Mary's breasts. Sometimes the place changed – her stomach, her thigh, even her palm – but it always retuned to her chest. That was the best. Mary knew it, and Villeneuve doubtless knew it as well.

Eventually, it stopped. Mary waited around for the other touch – at her breast, or anywhere – but it never came. Instead, she heard the sound of a puff of breath, and then Villeneuve was kissing her forehead.

“Fin!” she whispered, long hair twisting over Mary's skin.

Mary blinked, trying to open her eyes. After so long with them closed it felt strange to open them. She raised a hand to rub at them, and found her muscles oddly soft and tired. She had been so relaxed that she felt ready to fall asleep.

Her eyes began to open properly, revealing a very pleased, almost smug-looking Villeneuve leaning over her.

“Did you enjoy that, ma cherie?”

“Very much,” Mary replied honestly, stretching her arms and legs. She looked down at herself – red splotches dotted her skin, especially over her nipples. She marvelled; perhaps she should have been concerned, but she could only feel quite pleased. They were all in places that no-one would see normally, and the idea of this little secret that Villeneuve had left on her body was rather nice. “That was...wonderful, Colette!”

Villeneuve sat back up and moved towards placing the last remnants of the candle on the table but Mary stopped her with a hand on her arm. Tugging her towards her, she kissed Villeneuve on the lips.

“Love you, Colette.”

Villeneuve smiled, resting her forehead against Mary's. “Love you, too, Mary.”


End file.
